The historic day has finally come round and, aside from a handful of naysayers, the whole of Britain will go away with joyous memories of this year's most anticipated event: The Royal Execution.
Monarchists will argue that the sense of national jubilation had more to do with the four day weekend than any real desire to see Her Majesty receive her final severance package. Still, any such voices will have to contend with the pictures seen round the world of exuberant commoners dancing in the Queen's blood, their happy children kicking her head again and again against the hard stone of Nelson's column. Try telling them they didn't want to see the Head of The Commonwealth dead.
The day was filled with all the pomp and pageantry you'd expect from any royal event. As planned, at dawn on Saturday a small cadre of Beefeaters defected and opened the palace gates to a baying mob of peasants: dressed in a daring sack-cloth and cardboard ensemble stunningly envisioned by Sarah Burton, the mob was a rhapsody in brown. Thirty thousand of Her Majesty's lowliest subjects stormed the palace, tearing priceless paintings from the walls, downing hundred year old bottles of champagne and generally ripping the place apart in a beautifully choreographed display of wanton destruction. The Corgis, finally liberated, cantered into the streets of London, celebrating their newfound and long awaited freedom by pissing literally everywhere.
The scenes that came next, of a captured and dishevelled Monarch weeping on her balcony as she was ordered to confess the crimes of her reign, will stay with many of us forever and are already commemorated in a tasteful collection of nine decorative plates (£14.99 + P&P. Quote "Anarchish" when you order to get a historic figurine carved from Prince Charles' bones absolutely free).
The Sovereign did not take much prompting to begin a long and eloquent speech listing the many ways in which she had betrayed her realm and subjects. The confidence in her trained voice was belied only by the shaking of her hands and the occasional vomiting. Indeed, to universal surprise, the confession lasted 14 hours, and scholars for years to come will debate whether its thoroughness was due to genuine remorse or a desire to prolonge what was left of her glorious life.
Her multitude malfeasance admitted to, the Chief Hunter of The Manitoban Order of the Buffallo Hunt
was thrown onto a turnip cart and paraded down Whitehall. Hundreds of thousands of onlookers waved, cheered and joined in ironic chants of "God Save The Queen" as the red and black bunting fluttered overhead. At the end of the mall, the prime minister, David Cameron, sobbingly prepared the guillotine before selflessly allowing the executioner a practice swipe on his own neck. At last, the special moment had arrived. The Sovereign of The Most Ancient And Most Noble Order Of The Thistle knelt down and pushed her head through the special hole, before a child from a local comprehensive who'd won a competition pulled the lever and ended her. I'll never forget the loud cheering, the popping of liberated champagne corks or the horribly final chopping sound.
Since the Queen demanded to be beheaded for her jubilee just over a year ago, the nation has been coming to terms with the decision. She was, as she correctly pointed out, a grotesque anachronism, an unaffordable white elephant and, in the 21st century, a national embarrassment . A royal execution would stimulate the economy and help the tourist industry. Finally, she added, if she had to hear "God Save The Queen" one more fucking time, she'd find a gun and do it herself.